


Twilight of the Rosy Hours

by DeconstructedFallenStars



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, classical literature banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeconstructedFallenStars/pseuds/DeconstructedFallenStars
Summary: The Daroga offers his only daughter's hand in marriage to the Shah's Angel of Death.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Balcony

The blue hour hung over the Daroga’s garden like a cloak as Erik climbed the old oak tree by the wall and snuck inside. Had he called to the front door, the Daroga would have opened the garden gate. But then the Daroga would have known what was about to transpire had started, and Erik wasn’t sure he wanted that. The Daroga had proposed Erik marry the Daroga’s daughter, not that Erik steal into the garden at night to see her. He kept close to the trees, speed and stealth his tools, as he made his way from outer corner to central qanat, from there a straight line to the balcony overlooking the garden.

There she was, as the Daroga said she would be. A young woman leaned over the railing and watched as a gentle breeze moved the waters on the qanat. She dressed in the traditional Mazandaran fashion, full and colorful skirt, loose cotton tunic and vest, but was unveiled. He could see the resemblance to her father in the darker color of her skin, and the shape of her eyes. Her hair she must have inherited from her mother, it was long, thick, a gentle wave to it, and dark. When her hair fell forward over her shoulders, and the torch light shone behind it like a halo, Erik released the breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Suddenly the woman stood at the ready her eyes scanned the garden and she said, “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Erik kept himself close to the tree and still, and he cast his voice to the other side of the qanat, “Your bridegroom. Come to steal you from this paradise.”

She turned her face to where Erik’s had cast his voice and searched, then paused as if remembering something, and turned and looked to the other side, lingering on the tree that Erik was pressed behind. She lifted a torch from its sconce and held it towards the tree.

“My father said you might try something like this. Save your tricks for someone who will fall for them. Come into the light.”

Erik held his breath and place for a moment. The Daroga had said his daughter was clever and stubborn.

“Come into the light,” she repeated.

Erik stepped out from under the tree and stopped five feet from the balcony. The balcony was only five feet off the ground. He judged he could run, jump, and climb it faster than she could turn and run back inside.

“Why the mask?”

“Thieves stealing into gardens to carry off young maidens often wear masks. It’s quite the fashion.”

“In Mazandaran or in France?”

“Does my bride follow French fashion?”

She held her skirt out side-to-side and cocked an eyebrow, “Does my bridegroom not know Mazandaran fashion?”

“Evidently I need an education.”

“Then you must not be my bridegroom. My father said he was quite the genius, and quite learned.”

“What else did your father say about me?”

“What did my father tell you about me?”

Erik shook a finger. “Now, now, now, I asked you first. But let us be fair. I will tell you something your father told me about you, and you will tell me something your father told you about me.”

She shook a finger right back, “Then you owe me two things. For I already told you my father told me that you would try to sneak in through the garden at this hour, and that my father thinks you a genius.”

He laughed. “Your name is Sepideh. Your mother, Jessica, was your father’s surriyya, originally from France. Your turn.”

“Your name. He did not say if it was spelt with a K or a C.”

“A K. Erik.” He chuckled, clever girl, “Me telling you something about me was not part of the game, my dear.”

“You volunteered that on your own,” Sepideh replied. “Your turn.”

“Your mother made your father promise to not force you to marry.”

She nodded. “You’ve never been married.”

He shrugged, “My parents never forced me to marry either.”

She laughed, a low rolling chuckle from deep inside.

“Father didn’t mention your parents. Are they still alive? In France?”

Erik dropped his gaze from Sepideh and looked down at the qanat, “My father died before I was born. I left home when I was thirteen, I don’t know if my mother still lives.”

Sepideh frowned, “I can’t imagine. I’m sorry.”

That tender, awkward subject, hung in the air for a moment.

“My turn,” she whispered, “He said you liked cats. That you laid claim to any kittens Dasha would have.”

“That was before I knew Dasha was a he.”

“Dasha is very much a he. I suspect the kittens our neighbor cat, just bore are Dasha’s. It’s good that you like cats.”

A wisp of a smile started to grow on Erik’s face, not that she could see it beneath the black silk mask that covered it.

“Do you have cats?”

“I’m between cats, at the moment.”

“The cat had multiple kittens.” She turned to face south, towards the direction of the house that the cat and kittens resided in. “Your turn.” 

“He said you speak and read Persian and French fluently. You also read Arabic and Latin.”

“It’s the only way to read Apuleius. Father said you are something of a magician. That’s how Apuleius’s Lucius is transformed.”

“Do I look like an ass?”

“Then you must have already discovered the mysteries of Isis and been changed back.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, “Utterly untransformed and still a beast.”

“Then perhaps it is not Apuleius we must consult. For a beast that speaks as a man and comes as a bride groom seems more out of the pages of Madame Villeneuve and Madame Beaumont.”

Erik’s eyes flashed dangerously, “Did your father tell you how beastly I am?”

“It’s not my turn. It’s your turn.”

As Erik saw it, that was not an answer.

“Your father called you recalcitrant.”

“That’s true,” she sighed, “A terrible trait in a wife. A worse trait in a slave. And a trait in a woman that no land has yet embraced.”

“Is this why your father proposed I marry you?”

“Because I’m recalcitrant? He called you, what was it? Oh yes. Obdurate.”

“Then will Mohammed go to the mountain or the mountain come to Mohammed?”

“When the Prophet must heed the call to prayer, and rather not wake Muezza, he will cut off the sleeve of his robe.”

Erik shook his head. “Are you Mohammed, the mountain, or Muezza?”

Sepideh drew in her breath, held it for a moment, then let out a long meow.

“You’re interesting,” Erik conceded, “Whatever else you are, you aren’t boring.”

“Thank you.” She resumed her relaxed pose of leaning her elbows on the balcony railing, rested her chin in her hands, and peered at Erik. “This is certainly the most interesting conversation I’ve had in ages. …was it your turn or mine?”

“Who knows.” Erik shook his head, dizzy and half drunk on the conversation. “Did your Father tell you why I’m here, in Persia? What service I perform for the Shah?”

“I remember when Father left to go recruit you. At the time he told me the Shah was in need of a court magician, a great wizard to perform wonderous tricks.”

“Parents tell children such pretty lies. How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

Six years ago. She was twenty. “What does he tell you now?”

“The servants call you the Shah’s Angel of Death. Father said you are the Shah’s executioner, though mostly it is his mother who requires creative executions.”

“Does that frighten you? The thought of being the wife of the Shah’s executioner? One who would earn his daily bread finding new and painful ways for the Shah and his mother’s enemies to die?”

“Does it frighten you?”

It did.

Erik had not expected that.

He had not expected any of this.

He had not expected her to answer questions with riddles.

He had not expected her to be fearless.

_Holy blue, Daroga, what did you sire?_

“Does your face frighten you?”

“It should frighten you. I am made of death the whole over.”

She looked bored, “I doubt it. Corpses don’t climb garden walls, talk, or have much use for brides. If you are a corpse then you do not come as a bride groom for you have no use for a bride. If you have no use for the bride then I thank you for this amusement, but must retire for the evening.”

She stood back up, turned away from Erik, and began walking towards the door of her father’s house.

A madness seized Erik.

He ran towards the balcony, found his leveraged, jumped, and vaulted over the railing. Two long strides and he reached out to her, and caught her by the forearm. She turned, suddenly, then smiled like a cat that had just caught the songbird. This close and he could smell her perfume. Erik took a ragged breath and tried to calm the sudden loud beating of his heart. She turned her arm in his grasp and gently pressed her thumb to his wrist to feel his pulse.

“No corpse has a pulse that fast.”

Erik pushed the words out past the lump in his throat, “But a bridegroom?”

“Perhaps.”

His thumb slid down her arm to her wrist and gently pressed her warm skin.

“Brides’ hearts pulse that fast,” he paused, “For love or fear.”

“Should I be afraid?”

For the first time he met her gaze. 

He had not expected her to be fearless.

“You should know - before you consent to this – what it is,” he reluctantly released her wrist and brought his hands up to the back of his head where the black silk was tied in place. His heartbeat quickened. His mouth was suddenly dry. His fingers, usually so adroit, picked clumsily at the mask’s knot.

“It’s only fair. You’ve seen me unveiled.”

He didn’t like the thought of a veil hiding her hair.

The knot was undone. He swallowed and his hands shook as he let the mask fall from his face. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the scream he was sure would come. 

No scream pierced the night. The only sounds were the cackling of the torch and a symphony of cicadas.

He opened his eyes and found Sepideh studying his face, much like the Daroga had years ago.

“Well?” he whispered.

“Well what?” and the spell was broken, he could breathe again.

They stood studying each other’s faces. For a moment or an hour, who could tell? Time ceased to have meaning. Him, head bent down. Her, chin up.

_What would marriage be like to a woman like this? To this woman?_

Sepideh broke the silence.

“You know my dowry would be mine to keep. Father also promised the marriage contract would stipulate you take no other wives or concubines.”

Erik tried to imagine two or three Sepidehs. He suspected he was outnumbered with just one. “Yes.”

“My books would come with me. I will be allowed to read what I wish, when I wish.”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes. You and father can work out the details of my dowry.”

“Just like that?”

Sepideh placed a hand over Erik’s chest, he knew she could feel his still racing heart, “Just like that. You are trusting my Father’s judgement, as am I.”

Erik placed his hand over Sepideh’s, “He knew this would happen.”

She smiled, “He didn’t invite you into the garden tonight. He knew you would be curious and you’d take the bait.”

What interesting bait.

A voice called out Sepideh’s name from inside the house. The Daroga. Damn his timing.

Sepideh sighed, rolled her eyes, and called back, “Coming, Father.”

Her hand slowly slipped away from Erik’s chest, and he kept his hand and fingers on hers as long as he could. Slowly, she stepped back from him, never breaking eye contact, with a wistful smile.

_Maybe Villeneuve and Beaumont after all…_

Before she went back through the doorway she turned and looked back.

_Holy blue, Daroga, what are you getting me into?_


	2. Bath

It was closer to dawn than to sunset when Erik finally came home. The Shah’s mother had wanted the execution to last, and last, and last. She had been quite cross when the victim’s heart gave out sooner than she had wished. Erik had been relieved; he would finally get to go home to his wife and bed. One light in the front room still burned and lit up the window. That had been kind of Sepideh, to leave a light on for him. He opened the door as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the servants, kitten, or his wife.

The hubris, to think he could have avoided that!

Sepideh was curled up on a pile of rugs and pillows next to the oil lamp, the kitten curled up on Sepideh’s hip. She stirred when the door shut and sat up, accidentally dumping the kitten on a pillow with an indignant meow. She absently petted and soothed the kitten with one hand, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes with another as she focused on Erik.

“Are you home late or early?”

He sat beside her on the rugs and pillows. “I’m not sure. I thought you would be in bed.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand, “I was worried about you. You’re coming home later and later. And you’re more and more distraught when you do.”

Erik shook his head, “She’s getting more demanding. She wants them to take all night to die. Most of them, their hearts give out first. This isn’t why I came to Persia. I came to Persia to build whisper hallways and listening posts.”

Sepideh leaned in and sniffed his neck. “You stink of death. Bath. Right now.”

They stood and she led him down the stairs to the bathroom. When Erik thought of his childhood in France, the bathhouses of Persia still astounded him. The blue-tiled room had been renovated shortly before they moved into the estate, it permitted the couple to enjoy all the luxuries of a bathhouse without having to go out in public. It pumped in hot water from local aqueducts, and Sepideh had made certain it was stocked with sweet smelling perfumes and oils.

She undressed him as one might undress a child, undressed herself, poured hot water over him, soaped him down, then poured hot water over him again to rinse. She pointed him to the steam bath, and he immersed. He sank under for a moment till the need for breath drew him back to the surface. In that time she quickly rinsed and joined him in the water. 

He drew her onto his lap and folded his arms about her. She sniffed his neck again and lay her head on his shoulder, “Much better.”

They sat like that in silence for a few minutes as the hot, rose-scented water worked its magic on Erik’s tired muscles. “The bright side of marrying you,” Erik drawled, “Is that the Shah’s harem no longer clamors for me to be examined to determine if I am intact or not. They take our marriage to mean that I am, and therefore must stay on the other side of the partition.”

“That’s the only bright side?”

“Not the only bright side.”

“And little bright sides?”

“You left a light on for me. You waited up for me. You make the best lokum I’ve ever tasted.”

“It’s the hazelnut and cinnamon.”

“Giving away your secrets?”

“Not much of a secret, you’ve watched me prepare it. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking of those types of little bright sides…” she took his hand in hers and placed it over her belly. The sudden reality gripped Erik. Already plump, he had noticed her stomach growing a bit plumper over the past few months of their marriage. He had dismissed it, as he had dismissed the slow growing plumpness in his own lithe figure that he had attributed to having a wife who insisted he eat his meals at regular times instead of abstaining till his body could no longer sustain itself.

He gasped and froze, “How far along?”

“Probably three months. If I’m right, the baby would come late December.” She frowned, “You’re not happy?”

He thought back to the first few weeks of their marriage, when he had refused completion inside of her for fear of conception, an exercise in his self-control. For fear of conceiving a child with his deformity. The doctors had assured him it was not syphilis or smallpox, but couldn’t tell him what it was. The Daroga would never have offered up his daughter if he believed marriage would have made her or her children ill, he loved his daughter too much for that. Erik’s fear remained. The first full moon after their wedding she had mounted him. That and her hair in the moonlight, had been too much for his self-control. Self-control, when it came to Sepideh and their marriage bed, had not made its way back to Erik since then. Erik’s fear remained.

“I’m afraid,” he admitted, quietly.

“I’m not,” she placed a hand on his cheek, “I made my decision when you took off your mask.”

He had not put the mask back on since.

“And I like children,” she merrily continued, “I want a dozen at least.”

“They are such an expense,” he teased, “do you think we can afford a dozen children on what the Shah pays me?”

She shrugged. Her dowry and its revenues were hers. It was his job to provide for her and their family. “Father could convince the Shah to give you a raise.”

“December. That speeds up the plans. The central problem,” he changed the topic, “Is that this region is caught between the paws of the Russian Bear and the jaws of the British Lion in their Great Game.”

Sepideh frowned, “What do Britain and Russia have to do with--”

“I have been corresponding with the British Foreign Secretary.”

“Erik, do I need to be afraid?”

“Between the Shah, his mother, the Russian Bear and the British Lion? A measure of fear is reasonable. I have kept things from you for your own sake. But,” he pressed his hand back to her belly, “this changes things.”

“Erik, what does it change?”

“The timing. Two things have happened. The British ambassador, my contact, has been accused of sleeping with Meerza Hashem Khan’s wife.”

“She is sister to the Shah’s favorite wife.”

“The same.”

“She was arrested.”

Sepideh’s face paled.

“The British have demanded her release, and preparing to mobilize in the Gulf.”

Erik had not thought Sepideh’s face could grow paler, but it did.

“Meanwhile the Shah, in violation of the Anglo-Persian Treaty, is planning to troops into Afganistan to take Herat.”

“But surely, we are safe, here, in Mazandaran?”

“We are far enough from Crimea, Afganistan, and the Gulf to be safe from fighting. As is the Shah. Ironically, my dear, this is why we are closer to harm.”

Despite the hot water, Sepideh shivered. A twang of conscience struck Erik. She had waited up all night to tell him joyful news, and he talked of a chess game between imperial powers.

“I have been exceedingly useful to the British Empire. In doing so I have learned a great many things that the British would not want the Persians to know. I believe the ambassador will grant us passage to England with him when he leaves.”

“We would have to leave Mazandaran? Leave Persia?” his little wife had travelled the world over with her books, but had never been more than a hundred miles from the home her mother birthed her in. To face new motherhood and a brave new world where she did not speak or read the language?

“I fear for your safety, for our child’s safety, if we stay in Persia. I had hoped we would have a few more months at least, but things are moving too quickly, both with your belly and Britain. If we leave within the month with the ambassador you will have plenty of time to get our home in England in proper order before the birth.”

Sepideh lifted her head from his shoulder and studied his face. “When you came into my Father’s garden you were worried your face would prevent our marriage. You didn’t worry about being a spy for Britain?”

“Your father knew.”

“Would Father be coming with us to London?”

“Perhaps later. If I steal away back to Europe, well I am French and you are my wife. For the past few months I have told certain people, who I am sure will tell the Shah, that I have considered taking you back home on a visit to meet my mother.”

“You told me you didn’t know if she was alive or dead?”

“If she lives, she’s in France. We’re not going to France.”

Sepideh nodded, “A diversion.”

“You catch on quick, you clever girl.”

She mournfully looked around the bathroom, “I will miss this place.”

Erik pressed his face into her hair, “As will I.”

“We can’t move the entire household. The kitten, clothing, a few books…”

“All your dower jewelry, discreetly, hidden.”

She nodded.

“Well, I hear London has magnificent libraries. The water’s growing cool…”

They stood, toweled off, and dressed in silence. That was not like his wife at all.

“You haven’t said how you feel about…” she pointed to her stomach.

Erik pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “I worry for our son’s future. He will grow up a stranger in a strange land. Persian mother, French father. Not to mention,” he pointed to his own disfigured face.

“All parents worry about their children’s futures. But do you want-”

He kissed her, fiercely, interrupting.

“Yes.”

She smiled. “It’s almost sunrise. We should get at least a few hours of sleep.”

Hand in hand they walked up the stairs out of the bath and towards their bedroom.


	3. Beach

Someone called Erik’s name. Sepideh. Sepideh had called his name. Erik rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked round for his wife. He must have fallen asleep on their blanket on the beach, because he had laid down after lunch and now the golden hour hung over the ocean. He turned his head and looked down the beach, instinctively counting the children. When he came up with six he wondered where the two extra ones had come from, as his two eldest were not vacationing with the family in Brittany…

“Erik! Wake up, sleepy-head!”

_Damnit, recalcitrant woman, let me sleep._

He could hear her response, _obdurate_ , without either of them having to say it. Twenty-five years of marriage and that exchange took place three times a week at least. 

As he sat up Sepideh’s face popped into view over his. Wisps of her dark hair blew in the wind around her face, her head uncovered by any veil, as it had been since they had left Persia, and hair lit up by the sun. “Enjoy your nap? Remember last night when you asked who was playing the violin at the cottage down the beach from our hotel? Come and find out.”

She held out her hand, he took it, and she pulled him up from the sand. She looped her arm through his, and he squeezed her hand. She led him down the beach towards a group of people gathered around a disheveled blonde man with a consumptive pallor that matched his hair playing a folk tune on a violin. An older couple sat nearby, listening. Several children, some their own, and some not, sprawled on the sand.

“The older couple are Professor and Mme. Valerius,” Sepideh explained, “The Professor is here in Brittany studying local folk tunes for a paper he’s writing. They picked up the violinist, M. Daaé, in Upsala. From what I gather they’re his patrons. M. Daaé ’s daughter, Christine.” She pointed to a blonde girl with a red scarf lying in the sand next to their sixteen-year-old daughter, Camille. “Camille and her are already quite chummy. This is quite the step up for them considering they were homeless in Sweden two years ago. The group of them are here through the end of the summer.”

“Our neighbors for the next two months.”

“Yes. You will find M. Daaé interesting while he plays his violin, but when he starts prattling about angels of music and Catholicism…” she shook her head and gave him a look out of the corner of her eye, “Be polite. The poor man isn’t well.”

“My dear,” he grinned, “have you ever known me to be anything but the soul of discretion, kindness and compassion?”

She rolled her eyes. He loved making her roll her eyes.

“You and the Professor will get on quite well, I think. Especially if you play some songs from your childhood in Normandy, and sing.”

“Did he already exhaust your repertoire?”

She sniffed, offended, “Persian is not his specialty.”

He kissed the top of her head, “Then it is his misfortune. I quite enjoyed hearing you sing those Persian lullabies to our children.”

“You have no taste for Persian music. My singing is passable at best.”

“It’s my wife’s voice singing to our children. How could I not enjoy it?”

Sepideh did not answer him, just gave his arm a squeeze, as they had arrived at the gathering. She waved to the Professor and Mme. Valerius and she and Erik went to sit near them. M. Daaé fiddled on through the end of the song. He was skilled, Erik acknowledged. Though M. Daaé had grown up over two thousand kilometers from Erik’s childhood home, something in the tune felt familiar to the music of his homeland and his own childhood. 

Erik felt Sepideh shift in her seat next to him, like she did when she was bored. She had never taken to the music of his homeland, and he had never taken to the music of hers. Their children took to both. He glanced at Sepideh’s face. Neutral, cool, politeness. She was sitting here for his sake, not hers. And for their children, who seemed amused enough. He gave her hand a squeeze, and she squeezed back.

_Fond wife._

The song came to an end. There would be more. They had all summer before their family returned to London, and their children to school.

Two boys on the cusp of manhood made their way down the beach and walked over to the small gathering. The dark haired one was their son, Alphonse, with the family for holiday before he went to King’s College in the fall. Alphonse laughed at something the blonde boy of similar age said, and the blonde boy turned red and flustered. Alphonse gave the blonde boy a gentle shove and walked towards his parents. The blonde boy walked over to where Camille and the young Daaé girl lay on the sand and began chatting with Camille. 

“Alphonse, who is your friend?” Sepideh said. Obedient to his mother, he walked over to her.

“Raoul de Chagny. He and his brother are in the villa a mile down the beach.” Erik turned his attention towards the scene before him, the young de Chagny was trying to get Camille’s attention, Camille was trying to get Christine’s attention, and Christine was making eyes at de Chagny like a lovesick mooncalf. Alphonse, seeing his father’s look, laughed and shook his head. “Father, don’t worry about it. Raoul’s mad for Christine and trying to make her jealous by talking to Camille. Camille wouldn’t give Raoul the time of day if she were Big Ben. She thinks he’s an idiot.”

“Is he?”

“He’s joining the French Navy in the fall. But he’s a fine chap.”

Erik chortled at his son’s reply.

M. Daaé, finally realizing Erik and Sepideh had joined the party, turned towards them.

“Goodness! How many children do you have? Every time I turn around there is another!”

“Six,” Erik said.

“SIX?” M. Daaé gasped, then turned to count. He looked at Sepideh, “You cannot be old enough to have six children!”

“Thank you, that is very kind, but I assure you, I am,” explained Sepideh. “Our eldest, Etienne, is twenty-four and in London with his expectant wife-” 

“And a grandmother, at that!”

“-Amelie,” she continued, undisturbed, “is touring the Continent with friends of the family. Alphonse just walked over to the de Chagny boy, your daughter, and our daughter, Camille. The twins are six,” Sepideh looked around, “where did they get to?”

Erik tapped his wife’s shoulder and pointed towards two young children and finished, “And Lisette and Louvel are the two building a sand castle.”

M. Daaé ’s eyes grew large. “Six children. My wife, God rest her soul, could only give me Christine before she passed,” he looked sadly at the blonde girl playing with her red scarf.

The parents sat and watched the children, almost grown, as they stood upon the beach and talked and laughed. Alphonse would start to tell a joke, and Camille would interrupt with the punch line in the middle of it. Raoul had given up on talking to Camille to make Christine jealous, and instead tried to hold Christine’s attention as Alphonse and Camille grew louder, as they always did. A sudden ocean breeze swept Christine’s red scarf from her hand and blew it into the water. Christine cried out, and Raoul dashed into the water after it. Half soaked, he emerged like Venus from the ocean’s foam, scarf in hand. Shivering, he handed the girl her scarf, a supplication for her attention and affection.

“If it’s cold enough for a scarf, it is too cold for the water,” Sepideh said to Erik and shook her head. 

_You were born by the shores of the Caspian Sea, my love. The Atlantic will always be too cold for you._

She picked up a blanket and walked over to the children, “Boy! Dry yourself, head home, and change before you catch a cold.”

_…and you will never cease to mother every one you come across._ The thought tugged at his heartstrings.

Sheepishly the boy dried himself and, sorrowfully headed towards the villa he and his brother were staying at. The girl clutched the soaked scarf to her chest and gazed longingly at her departing hero. Camille and Alphonse steadfastly avoided each other’s gaze till Raoul was out of sight. Then the slightest glance between them had Alphonse howling with laughter and Camille giggling.

Erik turned to Sepideh, “Camille’s right. The boy’s an idiot.”

“Would you not run into the ocean to fetch my scarf?” Sepideh teased, as she sashayed her green silk. Erik reached for the scarf, tied it round her waist in a knot, and his wife laughed. “No need.”

The children scattered. Alphonse off to help the twins build their sand castle, and Camille and Christine perched on some rocks whispering and giggling. Like a child, M. Daaé wandered off, alternating between coughing fits and talking to some “angel of music”. 

Mme. Valerius turned to Erik to distract from M. Daaé’s behavior, “Your wife tells us that your son,” she pointed to Alphonse, “Is going to King’s College in London this fall.”

Erik tried not to beam. “Yes, our eldest, Etienne, graduated there as well. Amelie just completed her studies at the Royal Academy of Music. She’s quite a talented violinist. I suspect Camille will attend as the Royal Academy as well.”

Professor Valerius chimed in, “Christine has applied to the Paris Conservatory. It is one of the best, if not the best, in the world for a singer.”

Erik weighed the balances in his hand, “We did consider that for Amelie. Especially since I am from France. It certainly is a fine institution, but…”

“But what?”

Quietly, Sepideh asked, “If it is not too impertinent a question, Professor, is M. Daaé well?”

The Professor shook his head, “The doctors do not think he will live out the year. He has already signed the paperwork to make me his child’s guardian when God takes him.”

Erik shifted in his seat, the appearance of discomfort. Sepideh turned to watch Camille and Christine sitting together on the rocks. “Girls that age,” she said quietly, “They fall in love so easily. In the wrong situation they can be much abused for it.”

The Professor turned to Erik, “Speak plainly. Man to man. I’ve never had a child, but fear I will be _in loco parentis_ by Christmas time and want to do right by the girl for her father’s sake and her own.”

“Paris takes sweet girls,” Erik gestured to the two girls, “chews them up, and spits them out. What will she do in Paris after the Conservatory? Sing at the Opera?”

The Professor wavered, “That had been our hope…”

“That young boy so infatuated with her? If his parents-”

“His brother, the Comte de Chagny. His parents are past.”

“A Comte? Then what I am about to say goes double. That young boy, or someone like him, will never be allowed to marry a girl like Christine if she is an Opera singer.”

_Suitably shocked. Wait, for it…_

“That boy and his brother may take a Parisian opera girl for a mistress. His brother has likely already encouraged it. But a wife? No. They’ll assume she has been some other man’s mistress by virtue of being in the opera.”

Mme. Valerius’s voice wavered, “But Christine is a good girl! She would never!”

Erik softened, “So is our Amelie. So is our Camille. The truth does not matter, what people think is the truth does.”

“The young lady our son married,” Sepideh interjected, “has a reputation beyond reproach. She was our daughter’s friend at the Royal Academy before she met and married our son.”

“A French Vicomte, for that would be the boy’s title,” Erik continued, “may, in some families, marry an innocent young girl with an unimpeachable reputation, even without a fortune behind her.”

The Professor and Mme. Valerius looked at each other with pale faces.

_Had they not considered what the Opera would actually entailed for the girl? Holy blue…_

“It would be a sin,” said the Professor, “Not to encourage the girl’s voice. It is quite lovely.”

“I’m sure it is. It could be encouraged somewhere safer for her as well. A friend of ours is on the board of the Royal Academy, if you will permit me, I will write an introductory letter.”

Sepideh laughed, “Camille would love that!”

“London,” the Professor mused, “I had thought to take a trip to England at some point. Collect some English folk tunes for my paper… you certainly have given us much to think about and discuss.”

The Professor and Mme. Valerius quietly said something to each other, then to M. Daaé, who called out to his daughter. The girl obediently came to her father’s side, soaked scarf still clutched to her chest, mooncalf eyes wide and gazing in the direction of the villa.

Mme. Valerius turned to Sepideh, “It’s been wonderful to meet your family, my dear. But we must get back to the cottage for supper. I hope we see much more of you this summer.”

“Yes, and you,” Professor Valerius turned to Erik, “must bring your violin next time and play for us some songs from Normandy. Save me the trouble and expense of traveling there myself.” 

Erik nodded, “We must get our brood back to the hotel and feed them also.”

“Professor, Mme. Valerius, M. Daaé a pleasure,” Sepideh smiled then turned to her children, “Alphonse, Camille, go fetch Lisette and Louvel. We’re going back to the hotel for dinner.”

As the Valeriuses and Daaé’s departed Erik leaned in to his wife, “Well played. The boards of England are all the less for you never trodding them.”

“And you.”

The promise of dinner won over the children’s protestations that there was still light to play on the beach by. Alphonse lead the charge and lifted little Louvel up on his shoulders. Lisette clung to Camille’s long skirt and chattered about sand castles. Erik and Sepideh walked behind, arm in arm, taking their time and enjoying the calm, quiet space between them as sunset began to give way to the blue hour.

“We should come back here in two years,” Erik said, “Etienne and Eliza’s baby will be old enough to bring with by then.”

“If we aren’t hosting a wedding for Amelie or Camille by then.”

“So they can run off with some boy like Raoul? God forbid. I’ll have to lock them in a nunnery.”

Sepideh scoffed, “They’re our daughters. They’ll run off with whomever suits them. Just like I did.”

“Recalcitrant.”

“Obdurate.”

Erik stopped and pulled Sepideh close. He took her hand and placed it over his heart. “For you, wife, always.”

Sepideh stood on her tip toes, as she always had to, and gently kissed him.

_Villeneuve and Beaumont after all…_


End file.
